


howl.

by maledictus



Series: monstrous. [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Monstertalia, Slow Burn, alfred swears way too fucking much, monster au, too much worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-01-06 09:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledictus/pseuds/maledictus
Summary: There are so many questions Alfred has — far too many for one interview. He's told Toris that over the phone, and he'd simply laughed it off as though he understood.Should I ask about the mayor? The disappearances? The city's socioeconomic descent into complete segregation?The thunderbird's first question is much less political in nature, however, simply because it begs to be asked:"Youarea monster, correct?"After all, Toris has no scaly skin; no furry tail; no extra appendages or rotting flesh or pointed fangs or clawed fingers. The only sign of his monstrous nature is his slightly pointed ears, mostly hidden by his long and shaggy umber hair. By all accounts, he looks utterly and completely -benignly- human. That's hardly fitting for a man who had once been found guilty of assault, treason, andmurder.





	1. Chapter 1

Alfred exhales long and hard out his nose as he tries to calm the nervous energy pulsing through his muscles; the hand on the gate trembles, and he gives it a defiant look, as if trying to glare it into submission. He's not afraid — _definitely_ not afraid. Not even a little bit, honestly. _What does a fucking thunderbird have to fear?_ he asks himself with a huff of breath and a smirk, trying to goad himself into pushing the gate open and walking through it. His wings jostle themselves about involuntarily, whether from physical discomfort or mental or both; he hasn't stretched them in awhile, as he had to take the bus here — his boss had said something about it being rude to just fly into people's yards, and he had to make a good impression. After all, this was his first interview with someone from the upper echelon of society.

It would be one thing if he were interviewing a human; no, _of course_ the mayor's secretary would be a monster. "That makes you more comfortable, no? Talking to one of your own?" his boss had asked, and Alfred had simply shrugged him off. He's a people pleaser — there isn't a man or monster alive he isn't willing to meet. But this...this one is dangerous, or so all the papers say: 'eight o'clock curfews still in place', 'twelfth bite of the season', 'two dead from mauling'. He's never written those articles, but he knows the stories well enough that passing through this gate makes him stop and pause, even with the afternoon sun beating down brightly upon his skin and feathers.

 _Fuck, featherbrain, just open the gate._ Alfred's fingers reach for the latch, then hesitate, trembling. He could just call it quits right now, fly back home where it's safe...and kiss his job and his budding political career goodbye. It would be impossible to get to the mayor without his contact's information; he owes that intel to all of mankind, and monsterkind as well. _Will I really pass this up just because of a little anxiety?_

_Hell no._

Gritting his teeth resolutely, he presses the latch and shoves the gate open, stepping through it before he loses his nerve; it closes behind him with a finite 'click': the point of no return.

_What happens if he bites me?_

_Fucking shit, Jones: why do you have to ask yourself these things?_ He chastises himself as he follows the stone path through shin-high grass, swaying back and forth ever so slightly in the soft breeze. It's quiet: the hustle and bustle of the street seems to be shut out by the gate, as if through some kind of magic. Birdsongs echo out from the dense foliage overhead, and butterflies flit lazily from flower to flower, undisturbed as the thunderbird passes them by. In the distance, far down the winding path and nestled in between five large cottonwood trees on the edge of the forest, sits a modest log cabin, smoke wafting welcomingly from the chimney.  _This isn't even remotely what I imagined his place would look like,_ Alfred muses, put somewhat at ease by the peace and quiet around him. _I expected some bigass brooding mansion on a hill._

As he gets closer, he becomes intrigued by the well manicured facade of the cottage, and the understated landscaping around it; his keen ears pick up on the buzz of hummingbird wings as they flit from flower to flower in the front garden. _Everything is so green here_ , he remarks to himself. _Dude, even **he** 's green._ And indeed, the figure sitting in the chair on the front porch is very green; he's wearing a baggy olive sweater and deep emerald jeans and the most placid smile Alfred has ever seen. The thunderbird swallows against the nervous lump that has formed in his throat and reaches up to smooth down the long feathers poking out from his shaggy golden hair, hoping he doesn't look as anxious as he feels.

"Mister Jones, I presume?" The voice that greets him as his host stands and extends a hand for him to shake is quiet and good-natured, exactly like his house, exactly like his yard.

"Call me Alfred. It's nice to finally meet you, Mister Laurinaitis."

Alfred meets his outstretched hand with his own; his host's fingers are calloused and warm.

"Mister Laurinaitis is my father; please, call me Toris."

* * *

Toris, it turns out, is nothing to be afraid of; well, not for Alfred, anyway. He's the exact opposite of the snarling visage of the werewolf that graces the tabloids on an almost daily basis: rather, he's gentle and accommodating, immediately inviting the thunderbird inside and offering him a cup of coffee and a spot by the fire to warm his wings. It's not all that cold outside, but Alfred is compelled to accept the offer — something in Toris' soft fern eyes holds sway over him. Maybe it's the fact that he's a predator, and instinct is hard to deny...or maybe it's just because they've only just met and he's so damn sweet. One way or the other, Alfred sits with his back to the cheerfully dancing flames, wings unfurling just a bit to relax in the warmth.

It doesn't seem to faze Toris at all, much to the thunderbird's surprise.

Usually, the wings make people uncomfortable or frightened; or, at least, they intimidate people upon stretching out a bit. But Toris seems-...curious? Is that the expression in those green eyes that are pretending not to scrutinize him? Still, it's benign enough that Alfred doesn't get his feathers ruffled — in fact, it feels kind of nice, having someone stare at his majestic wings without abject horror or discomfort.

"So," he starts after taking a long, slow sip of coffee; _that's awesome_ , he thinks to himself as he rummages around in his bag for his recorder. He meets Toris' gaze and holds it in an unspoken game of chicken — it's just the first of his tactics in getting an honest interview. "I don't wanna take up too much of your time. Shall we get started?"

The brunet nods wordlessly, sitting across from him, just close enough for their knees to touch if Alfred leaned in a bit. There's trust in his eyes, though it falters just a bit as he casts a glance down at the recorder.

"Ask me anything."

 _Anything: hoo boy. Where to begin?_ There are so many questions Alfred has — far too many for one interview. He's told Toris that over the phone, and he'd simply laughed it off as though he understood. _Should I ask about the mayor? The disappearances? The city's socioeconomic descent into complete segregation?_ The thunderbird's first question is much less political in nature, however, simply because it begs to be asked:

"You _are_ a monster, correct?"

After all, Toris has no scaly skin; no furry tail; no extra appendages or rotting flesh or pointed fangs or clawed fingers. The only sign of his monstrous nature is his slightly pointed ears, mostly hidden by his long and shaggy umber hair. By all accounts, he looks utterly and completely - _benignly_ \- human. That's hardly fitting for a man who had once been found guilty of assault, treason, and _murder_.

"Yes." He answers with the straightforwardness of a former military policeman. "I am a vilkacis."

That catches the thunderbird off guard; now it's his turn to look curious. "...a what?"

"A vilkacis."

"...gezundheit."

Toris laughs, and Alfred's front suddenly feels just as warm as his back.

"It's something like a werewolf. I certainly do not expect you to know it; I'm a regional breed."

Alfred looks at him quizzically. Toris' shoulders just barely move: an imperceptible sigh. Alfred's pressed play on his recorder, trying his best to do so without attracting the older man's attention. If Toris heard the click of the button, he doesn't show it.

"I'm a breed from Lithuania. There aren't a lot of us left due to the culling; we've been mistaken for werewolves by several thousand people too many."

"So you're a werewolf...but you're not a werewolf." To say Alfred is confused would be an understatement.

"Yes, and yes. Under the laws of this city, as a man who transforms into a wolf, I am considered a werewolf." Toris looks distinctly unhappy, though the thunderbird gets the sensation that it isn't directed at him. "However, a vilkacis is not spurred to transform by the full moon, and will not enter a half man half wolf state; and most importantly, a vilkacis does not propagate through biting — I cannot turn men into monsters with my bite."

He raises a brow as if to ask 'satisfied?', and Alfred nods. He's a prime example of speciesism.

"So, you're a vilkacis...a werewolf, but not a werewolf...and you're the secretary for the mayor, correct?" 

"Well, I'm more like his personal assistant." The vilkacis gives his guest a pained smile. "I intercept his calls and his guests, and write down all his memos and requests just as a secretary would, but there's much more to it than that."

"How much more are you willing to share?" Alfred's eyes glitter. He's hungry for information.

Toris' eyes shine in return, a beseeching look in their fern depths.

"How much time do you have? It would take a lifetime to tell you everything." The vilkacis' voice almost trembles.

Alfred's leaned in closer without realizing; their knees are touching, and his wings are twitching and fidgeting with anticipation. "I told you I'd meet with you more than once. I want to know everything, Toris: who you are, how you came here, how you ended up so close to the mayor, and what you can tell me about him. Everything, Toris."

The Lithuanian doesn't seem to mind their contact at all; if anything, he seems to be encouraging it, pressing closer to the knees brushing his own. He holds Alfred's gaze without hesitation, trust and understanding and something pleading in his eyes. For a long while, there's silence — the fire crackles in the fireplace, and the floorboards creak as the old cabin continues to settle. The bird calls outside are all but a faint memory now: all that matters is this tense moment, the warmth and pressure of their knees touching and their eyes meeting, that tremulous connection between them that will get Toris to open up and tell him absolutely everything. And then, finally:

"...gerai. Let's start at the beginning."

 


	2. Chapter 2

He runs.

His feet chew up the asphalt of side streets and back alleys; he sticks to the shadows cast by the brightly-lit high rises. The wolf's heart beats in tandem with his own, thundering against his ribs as he makes a desperate bid for a someplace, any place, to hide. He knows this is impossible: the blood oozing from the gunshot in his side leaves a clear trail of his movements. If he runs for much longer, his pounding hearts will force every drop of blood from his veins and all of his struggles for the past six years will be for nothing. After all, _you can't bring a corrupt empire to its knees with vital intelligence if you're dead._

Toris decides that he has to move faster. " _Geležinis Vilkas, duok man jėgų ir drąsos._ " The second the words leave his lips, he feels his skin burn and his blood boil; he spits his teeth out one by one as razor-sharp fangs take their place in his gums; the wolf's muzzle erupts from between his lips as they stretch and rip; and in a matter of bloody, disgusting moments, a man-sized wolf lopes through the streets, leaving his discarded human skin behind. He's able to run much faster this way, despite the wound in his side — _idiots tried to shoot me with a silver bullet_ , he thinks with a roll of his bright green eyes and a huff of breath that may have been the wolf equivalent of a laugh. That would have taken down a werewolf, if he were a werewolf...and if Schneider was a good shot. Fortunately for Toris, he wasn't; unfortunately for Toris, he wasn't the only one shooting at him.

_Where's Gilbert?_ He lifts his shaggy head to scan the sky, or what little of it he can see in between the towering neon skyscrapers; he fully expects to see the gryphon dodging the circling spotlights, but is met with empty air. _Shit, they must have gotten him already,_ he realizes grimly, and he forces his paws to move even faster, pinning his ears to his skull and lowering his head to make himself more aerodynamic. Without his partner, he's as good as dead.

_ How did they know? How could they possibly have figured out when we would do the press release? Fuck, if I'd have known it ran this deep-... _

His thoughts grind to a halt as he feels a searing pain in his back; he lets out a very undignified yelp as he's pinned to the ground by what can only be the iron grip of talons. He twists and fights to get free, feeling his flesh tear and shred even as he snarls and snaps in any direction he can; over the heavy beating of massive wings, he hears a finite pop, and the hiss of his lungs deflating fills his ears and clouds his brain with hypoxia; a flash of something white crosses his vision before everything fades to black.

* * *

"...but they didn't kill you." Alfred states the obvious, looking very engrossed in the story.

"Evidently not," Toris retorts with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure they wanted to; but they were on strict orders not to."

Alfred's followup question is predictable: "From whom?"

Toris doesn't have to answer; he fixes the thunderbird with a knowing look, and Alfred looks stunned, the feathers in his hair standing almost straight up in surprise.

"The _mayor?_ " His volume is far too high for Toris' comfort, and he glances around his cabin warily — he never knows if or when his home is bugged and the mayor is watching his every move.

"Yes," he replies softly, hands drumming against his own thighs nervously. Alfred gives him a quizzical look, magnificent wings jostling themselves against his shoulder blades, evidence of his gears turning behind his spun-gold hair.

"But why? It would have been easy to explain away, even if you _were_ a cop: just cleaning another werewolf off the streets."

Toris watches him; Toris _studies_ him. Inside his chest, the wolf's heartbeat begins to quicken.

* * *

He doesn't expect company, but company comes: a quiet voice speaks through the nonstop drone of the hospital equipment, and Toris has to strain his ears to hear it.

"Privyet, Toryushka."

His stomach drops. He knows that voice, so soft and saccharine and dripping with _poisonous love_. The tube in his chest and the IVs in his arms prevent him from moving, though all he wants to do is run. Toris is used to being the _predator_  — feeling like _the prey_ has him terrified almost into silence.

"Braginsky." It escapes as a thin, horrified breath of air, his voice working against the cannula pumping oxygen into his collapsed lungs.

"Please, call me Ivan."

He approaches, a hulking mass of black silk and white bone looming over the bed, unfazed by the fluorescent hospital lighting. Behind his bone helm, the mayor is grinning, all teeth but not smiling. The empty sockets of the buck skull watch him intently, two pinpricks of purple light raking over Toris' prone form like the carnivore he is. _Lyudoyed, they call him: Man-eater; Disemboweler; Monster Among Monsters; the Great Devourer; Ivan Nikolaievich Braginsky._

"Are you here to finish the job?" Toris spits as aggressively as possible, though it only comes out as a frightened whimper. The mayor shakes his antlered head slowly, deliberately.

"If I wanted you dead, you would be dead; there is no need to dirty my own hands." His voice is singsong, nonchalant; he paces from one side of the bed to the other, the twin purple dots in those baleful sockets never straying from the vilkacis' face. Toris feels confusion enter his own features, though he doesn't have the strength to voice it. Any other such merciless kingpin would have had him killed, and quickly at that; but Ivan-...Ivan has never been predictable, or conventional, or _sane_.

Hunger will do that to a man.

"You are far more valuable to me alive than dead, my wonderful Toryushka," Ivan croons, reaching down to trail a pale finger over Toris' cheek; he's too weak to pull away, though revulsion forces bile up into his throat. The wolf itches to twist, to snap his jaws down onto that monster's hand and tear it off; but Ivan would probably like that. Indeed, Ivan sees the silent rebellion in Toris' eyes, and once again grins hungrily behind the jaw of his buck skull; the gnarled scars around his lips shine under the bright lights.

"Work for me; belong to me and only me, and I will give you a life of luxury and opulence you've only dreamed of." Ivan's voice has gone dangerously soft, soft enough to scream _I will tear out your still-beating heart if you refuse me_ ; Toris imagines this intimidation tactic is how he became the mayor, though _consuming the opposition_ probably helped as well. "You will be my secretary, starting now. You will take letters for me, receive my guests, answer my phone calls, schedule my appointments, and accompany me out into the people; and in return, you shall want for nothing, and until you are well enough to start, I will move you to the private wing and give to you my personal doctors, because nothing is too good for my little _shchenok_." Under normal circumstances, it would be impossible for a defleshed deer skull to look gleeful, but _Ivan isn't normal_. Every word the mayor speaks only makes more and more of the Lithuanian's hair stand on end, makes the wolf run terrified circles around his insides as though seeking a way out; he would rather be dead, and he gives Ivan a look that tells him so.

"Refuse me," the cannibal counters in a low tone, a positively euphoric grin on what can be seen of his face. "and I will release  _Tape Number Zero Two One Six_  to the public."

Toris' blood runs cold. He's convinced his hearts have stopped, but the soft beeping of the EKG machine tells him otherwise.

A real wolf knows when he is trapped.

* * *

"What's on that tape."

Alfred doesn't ask — he demands. He looks positively ravenous now, not unlike the way Ivan leered at him before whisking him away to the privately funded wing of the hospital. Toris shudders, and once again, the old cabin creaks and settles.

"Not now," he replies quickly, perhaps too quickly; Alfred deflates, his head feathers flattening against his skull and his wings drooping rather pathetically. Outside the window, the sun disappears behind a cloud.

_Right: thunderbird._

"In time, Alfred." Toris gives him a good-natured, if not somewhat apologetic, look. "We have a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of trust to build, before I can dive in that deep with you."

That seems to satisfy him; the journalist shuts off his recorder and lets out a long, slow sigh as he gets to his feet, swiping a hand through his spun gold hair and smoothing back his ruffled feathers. He looks thoroughly intrigued, invested, and ready to smash Ivan's skulls to pieces, and this more than pleases the vilkacis sitting across from him: after all, _if anyone can defeat a wendigo, it's a thunderbird_.

"Right: ground to cover, and trust to build. Wanna meet at my place next? I'm off work at three most days, and I'm itching to know more."

"I will go wherever you'd like as long as you promise to run your articles by me before releasing them," the Lithuanian replies easily. He suspects that Alfred lives in the Cloudbreaker District: tall spiraling skyscrapers are not his favorite places to visit, but he'll do whatever it takes to set his knowledge free. Alfred nods finitely and extends a hand for him to shake; he gets a grateful hug instead. "Thank you," the vilkacis mutters against the taller monster's shoulder, "for doing this for me. You have no idea the good you're doing."

Alfred gives him a confused but confident smile when he pulls away, and when he leaves, he doesn't bother taking the bus; he pops the collar on his bomber jacket and leaps into the sky with a powerful beat of his wings, and a ripple of distant thunder rolls across the sky. Toris watches him from the doorway, doing his best to ignore the chill that creeps up his spine from within his old house.

"He seems nice," a voice whispers in Toris' ear.

"Yes," the Lithuanian agrees in a resigned tone. "And he's our last hope."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation of lithuanian:  
> "Geležinis Vilkas, duok man jėgų ir drąsos." — "Iron Wolf, give me strength and courage."
> 
> translation of russian:  
> privyet (привет) — greetings.  
> lyudoyed (людоед) — man-eater.  
> shchenok (щенок) — puppy.

**Author's Note:**

> translation of lithuanian:  
> gerai — okay.
> 
> enjoy the shitty first chapter of my monstertalia au. ovob


End file.
